Stop Being Mean to Yourself Page 13

  When I went to check out the hotel, the manager showed me a suite. It was nothing fancy—basic Egyptian decor. But the price was right. It was almost like an apartment. It had a large bathroom, a living room, and a bedroom. It would be a perfect place to write. I’d be only a few minutes from the desert. I could unpack my computer, set up shop, and alternate times of intense work with powerful meditation sessions in the pyramids.

  The ancient energy I had tapped into here would keep me highly charged.

  I returned to the hotel in downtown Cairo, checked out, and loaded my belongings in a taxi. Instead of going directly to the hotel, I headed for the sandlot. I wanted to return to the pyramids for another dose of their powers.

  I left my belongings at the perfume shop and mounted a camel for my trek to the small, potent pyramid that had unleashed its energy on me yesterday. I had packed away my white head covering in my suitcase. I didn’t think wearing it today would be necessary. But Essam insisted that I again wear white “to get the powers.”

  As the camel clopped down the narrow path on the way to the desert, I purchased yet another white cloth and stuck it on my head. I didn’t understand what had taken place in the pyramid. I didn’t see how wearing a white rag on my head connected to this mystery. But undeniably, yesterday had affected me greatly. I wanted more—even if meant looking ridiculous.

  Essam’s young nephew rode alongside me again. I smiled at the same bulky sun-withered pyramid guard and followed him through the tiny opening in the side of the tomb. I crouched down and walked through the narrow curving passageway. The guard placed four white candles on the rim encircling the small room in the center of the pyramid. He and my guide then departed, leaving me alone to receive more of the “special powers.”

  This time, I sat cross-legged on the floor, closed my eyes, and asked God to help me. I began to meditate, breathing in the air and energy of this dank mysterious vortex. In moments, just seconds, it hit me. It entered through my crown.

  The force of the energy whipped me backwards, knocking me flat on the ground. The hair on my arms stood up, electrified. From my head to my toes, this mysterious vortex whirled through me with the force of a tornado, charging me with its powers.

  It had probably done the same thing yesterday, but I’d been too clogged with my own dank beliefs and dark emotional residues to feel it. Today, I could feel it while it was happening.

  Yesterday had been a critical step—a preparation for today.

  There are higher places we can go to connect with ancient energies, power, and wisdom that have been entombed and hidden from sight. The purpose of the powerful energy being unleashed is to clear us out so these long-forgotten powers can manifest in each of us.

  When I finished meditating, I tipped the guard, rode the camel back to the sandlot, paid my guide, and thanked Essam. I made tentative plans to return to Essam and the pyramids in a few days. I was ready to get to work.

  When I arrived at my new home, the small hotel near Giza, the owner checked me in and gave me a key to my room. I took the slow, creaking elevator to the ninth floor, went to the room number I had been assigned, and opened the door.

  I looked around, my eyes widening in disbelief. This room was dark, and it was the size of a large closet—nothing like the apartment I had been shown before. I walked to the one small window, opened the grimy curtains, and looked outside. The room was not only small and dark, it directly overlooked a construction site.

  This triggered a memory, an unpleasant one that had begun the summer before this trip.

  I was renting a small cottage by the sea. I could hear the waves from every room in my little house. The warm California sun rarely hid behind the clouds. I could write, walk on the beach, go for a swim in the ocean after my morning coffee. I could live and write my books with nature at my side. It wasn’t necessarily a dream home, but it was heaven to me—until the pounding began.

  It started with a simple “for sale” sign that went up on the house next door. Soon new owners purchased the property—a sprawling mansion that dwarfed my little cottage. The new owners gutted their huge house and began major reconstruction. In California, there is often little space between the homes. Their home was only a few feet from my office, my bedroom, and my living room. Every morning, the noise from the hammering, the radios, and the loud voices of the laborers woke me before my alarm, which was set for 7:00 A.M. Most days, the noise sounded as if it came from my living room.

  The pounding continued day after day after day—six and sometimes seven days a week.

  It would go on for almost a year.

  The noise seemed to intensify each time I went in my office to work. Even the healing forces of nature—the sun, fresh air, and frothy surf—weren’t enough to diminish the colossally annoying forces of the workers’ hammering blows.

  I explored moving. I looked at over fifty other dwellings. No door opened for me there. I was stuck living next to a construction site. I tried to live with the situation as best I could, acknowledging my neighbors’ right to renovate and my right to be annoyed. But the combination of their noise and my frustration blocked me from working or living in peace.

  Now in Giza, as I looked out from this tiny, dark room and saw the sprawling construction site loaded with jackhammers, mesh fencing, and loud-talking workers, I just shook my head. This isn’t going to work, I thought. It’s not going to work at all.

  I returned to the lobby and complained to the manager.

  “This is not the room you showed me originally,” I said. “I want a large room like the one I saw before. I want windows, so light can get in. And I don’t want to live and sleep next to a construction site. I’m planning on working here. I told you that before. I need peace and quiet.”

  The manager, an older, polished Arabian gentleman dressed in a suit, suddenly developed a problem speaking English. He acted as if he didn’t understand, stumbled over words, balked a bit, then finally agreed to give me a better room—the only other room he said was available. Naturally, he would have to raise the price. I said that was fine but asked to see the room first. He showed me the room. It was the same one he had originally shown me.

  I grilled him then.

  “Will it be quiet here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you promise?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, assuring me the room would be everything I wanted. I transferred my luggage and, for the first time since leaving the United States, unpacked. I hung my clothes in the closet. I put my smaller garments in the drawers. I unpacked my bath products, my hair products, and my mementos. I spent the entire evening setting up my room. I was halfway around the world from where I lived, but I wanted to make myself feel comfortable.

  The following day, I finally unpacked my computer too. I hooked up the electrical adapter I had brought to accommodate the foreign voltage. Then I turned on the computer, opened a fresh new file, and typed one or two words, trying to get my lead. That’s when it began.

  It started with one loud pound. Seconds later, another loud pound followed. Then, another.

  Soon the pounds turned into continuous, irregularly paced slams that shook the walls, the floor, and the legs of the little table where I sat, staring into my fresh new file.

  I didn’t know who was making this noise but my irritation increased with each wall-shaking slam. I told myself to ignore the pounding. Then my stomach started to hurt. It ached. I forced myself to focus on the blank computer screen and tried to think up words to write. The harder I tried to focus, the harder the pounding shook the walls and my concentration, and the more my stomach hurt.

  What’s wrong with me that I can’t handle a little pounding? I thought. Just buck up, do your work, and ignore the noise.

  I couldn’t ignore it.

  Finally, I pushed my chair away from the table and walked to the outside corridor. I looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise and my aggravation. I didn’t have to go far
. The door to the room next to mine was wide open. A dark, rail-thin man sat cross-legged on the floor, a few inches from the wall. In his hand, he held a large mallet—the biggest hammer I had ever seen. Every few seconds, he raised the mallet over his head and took a whack at the wall. Each blow cracked off a tiny piece of the thick, concrete-like plaster that comprised these old Egyptian walls.

  The man wasn’t wielding the hammer fast, but he was smacking hard. It looked as if he was yet to find his rhythm. The entire hole he had made in the wall measured less than a square foot.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He looked my way.

  “How long is this pounding going to continue?” I asked.

  He looked around the room and gestured. “Until all the walls are down,” he said.

  I took a deep breath, thanked him, and returned to my room.

  I tried going back to my writing and ignoring the noise. That didn’t work. The more I tried to ignore the pounding, the louder it sounded. Each time I heard the thud of the hammer hitting the wall, I began anticipating the next blow.

  I pushed away from the desk and decided to meditate. I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes, relaxed my body, and allowed myself to sink into a deep, almost hypnotic state—imaging white light around me, trying to recreate the power I had felt surge through me in the pyramid. As I relaxed more and more, I deliberately programmed a thought into my mind: when I come out of this state, I will know what to do next. I will go deep within myself. The answer I need will be there.

  I meditated for almost an hour.

  When I arose, I felt calm and serene. The pounding continued, but my anxiety had diminished. In just a few moments, the answer came to me, seemingly from nowhere. The solution surprised me but expressed itself with crystal clarity.

  I knew what I had to do.

  It was time to leave. It was time to go home.

  This trip—all parts of it—had been enlightening and transformational. But I had found my story. I had gotten what I needed. I was tired of pretending my stomach didn’t hurt. The pounding would continue—I was obviously doomed to have it follow me around. And I was beginning to gradually fade into this culture, which wasn’t the purpose of this journey. For many reasons—some that I understood and some that I didn’t see—it was clear that the same vortex that had brought me here was now spitting me out.

  I had been pushed to my limits. Enough was enough.

  A strange feeling settled in. I felt agitated, almost panicky. I didn’t understand this feeling, but I knew what it meant. I wasn’t being gently nudged out of Egypt. I was being pushed out as forcefully as I had been drawn here. It wasn’t just time to leave. It was time to leave now. My Middle Eastern adventure had ended.

  I went to the phone and called Wendy, back in the United States.

  “See if you can get me out of here,” I said. “See if there’s a flight out tonight.”

  Wendy promised to call me back within the hour. I hung up the phone and started stuffing my clothes into suitcases. Shortly, the phone rang. I expected to hear Wendy’s voice. It was Essam.

  He asked how I was, and when I was coming to the sandlot again.

  Essam had been so helpful in setting up a place for me to stay. He had so many events planned for the rest of this trip. I knew he was looking forward to my continued visit. I knew he would be disappointed by this sudden change in plans. I felt foolish after all he had done. I hoped he wouldn’t feel as if I had let him down or betrayed him because I had changed my mind.

  Once, while I was eating in a restaurant with Nichole and Will, the slice of pineapple Nichole was trying to cut had slipped off her fork, flown across the room, and landed at some other patron’s foot. Nichole had covered her mouth with her hand and said, “Oops.”

  That’s what I had to do now.

  Essam sounded saddened at the news, but he was respectful of my decision to leave. I told him I was waiting for Wendy to call back with the flight information. If I could get out tonight I would swing by the perfume shop and say good-bye before I left. I hung up the phone and returned to packing. When I closed and locked my last suitcase, I realized Wendy still hadn’t called.

  By now, three hours had passed.

  I felt agitated and confused. Wendy was reliable, dependable, and always on time. She did exactly what she said she would do. Although she was back in the United States, she had helped me navigate this entire trip.

  I called her. She answered immediately.

  “Where were you?” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you back. All the front desk would tell me is that you were gone for the day.”

  My agitation turned to mild paranoia.

  Why would they tell her that? They knew I was here. I had called down and talked to the person at the front desk several times. I could see it all happening before my eyes. Nichole would have to fly over here, find me, and wrest me back home. She’d be doing a remake of Not Without My Daughter, a hair-raising real-life story about an American woman who refused to leave an Arab country until she could free her child. Only Nichole would be calling her book Not Without My Mother.

  Wendy and I agreed on the phone that for whatever reason, something didn’t feel quite right. And yes, it was time to go.

  Then Wendy told me the good news. She could get me out on a flight tonight. I would have to fly from Cairo to Tel Aviv, and then sit in Tel Aviv for almost seven hours. From there, I’d pick up an Air France flight that would fly me directly to L.A.

  I didn’t think twice. If that was the door that was opening, I’d walk through it.

  “Book me,” I said. “If I hurry, I can make it.”

  I paid for my room, checked out of the hotel, hailed a taxi, and headed for Lotus Palace Perfumes. It was time for one last look at the sandlot. It was time to tell Essam good-bye.

  I asked the cab driver to wait while I sat on the bench and talked for a while to Essam. This sudden parting was hard for both of us. We had become close friends. I thanked him for all his help, his warm hospitality, and all the lessons he had helped me to learn. We talked of things we might do in the future, if I were ever to return. Of course the women wanted to see me again, he said. The pyramids were waiting with more powers. And Essam could take me—and any friends or family I brought along—camping in the desert, riding camels by night and pitching and sleeping in Arabian tents during the hot desert days.

  Essam excused himself for a moment, then returned bearing handfuls of gifts. He gave me bottles filled with colored desert sand, a metal commemorative plate, a figurine, and three stone replicas of the pyramids. I packed the gifts in my suitcase. Then, Essam placed in my hand three tiny blue stone beetles—scarabs—symbols of resurrection, rebirth, and eternal life.

  I hugged him good-bye and said I would return someday, adding the words “Insha’a Allah.”

  I climbed into the cab, and we headed toward the airport. We had to drive through Giza and most of Cairo to get there. It was late. Time was running out. The already thick, unruly traffic would be steadily increasing until it reached its chaotic evening peak.

  “Hurry,” I told the driver, as we wound our way through the village of Giza.

  He turned around to look at me. “Hurry?” he said, imitating me with an Arabic accent. Obviously, he didn’t understand the word.

  “Yes, hurry. Fast,” I said, making a quick, sweeping gesture with my hand.

  “Oh.” He nodded in recognition. “Quickly!”

  I turned around for one last look at the pyramids. Lit for the night shows, they glowed mystically on the desert skyline. I sank down into the seat and closed my eyes, preparing for the drive ahead. Now, my driver was dutifully hurrying.

  A fleeting thought crossed my mind. Don’t relax too much. This trip isn’t over yet. I ignored it. I just wanted to go home.

  I arrived at the Cairo airport half an hour before the plane was scheduled to depart. I checked my luggage through the first security check, then tried to get past the hoard of p
orters—some of whom didn’t even touch my luggage—who held their hands out for a tip. One porter ran up to me and tried to grab the money hanging out of my pocket.

  “Stop that. You’re disgusting,” I screamed under my breath. “You didn’t even touch my luggage. Now get away.”

  I relaxed when I reached the next security check a few moments later. I thought I was home free. But it wasn’t over yet. A young woman with dark hair suddenly approached me, then pulled me aside. That’s when the interrogation began.

  “I thought it was just a fluke that I had been held and interrogated in Cairo. When they finally released me, after I had broken down and cried, I didn’t think about the incident again. I was simply glad it was over and happy to be on my way home. Now, after almost four hours of being grilled, held under the spotlight, and having my notes and computer examined here, I know it’s more than a fluke,” I said to the interrogator in Tel Aviv.

  Something’s going on here, I thought. Something more than meets the eye.

  Seeing my frustration and anger, the chestnut-haired female grilling me suddenly switched gears. For the first time, she appeared sympathetic and almost human.

  “I’m sorry this is taking so long,” she said. “But we have many bomb threats in our country.”

  “I understand,” I said. I hoped that meant she was going to stop.

  It didn’t. She immediately fired her next question my way.

  “Do you have any more notes? Anything more you can show us?”

  Why was I being tortured this way? What was going on? I didn’t get it the first time, and I especially didn’t get it now. I was standing here, dripping sweat, the only person detained in this airport.

  I dug through my folder. “Here. This is it,” I said. “This is all I can find. It’s absolutely all I wrote.”

  “Read it to me,” she said.

  I started reading from the wrinkled piece of paper.

  “It’s not just about the things we do or don’t do, although those things matter. It’s not about always doing things the right way. And it’s certainly not about doing things the way others tell us we should. It’s about how we love and treat ourselves, how we respond to ourselves, how we talk to ourselves about the things we do—our life experiences, who we are, and where we’ve been. It’s about giving ourselves that feeling of gentle, loving self-acceptance, the one we’ve wanted for so long.